


Dreams

by Kangoo



Series: LGBT Destiny Month 2019 [20]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: LGBT Destiny Month, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 11:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: Three times Jolyon dreamed of Uldren, and one time he didn't





	Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> very first part is kinda nsfw if you want to skip that kinda content. 
> 
> basically: jolyon has a wet dream about uldren and isn't happy about it

There are hands on his body, fever-warm against his bare skin. Splayed over his stomach, running up his chest and down his thighs, exploring every part of him. Every touch sets his nerves on fire, maddeningly slow, never lingering long enough to be anything more than teasing.

Jolyon lets out an involuntary moan when a thumb brushes against his nipple. He wants to reach out, drag the tease’s closer until they’re flush together, but suddenly there is only one hand roaming his body, the other pinning his wrists above his head. Lips press against his ribs, kiss their way up his chest, his neck, along his jaw. He arcs under the touch, moaning lightly, and a hand pushes him down again, effortlessly strong.

They leave a fleeting kiss at the edge of his lips, under his eye, under his ear, lightly biting the sensitive skin there. He wines, wanting _more_ —

“So _needy_ , Jol,” Uldren says, gently mocking. “Have a little patience-”

He wakes up.

He’s panting, tangled up in sweat drenched bed sheets. The room is He groans, throwing an arm over his eyes like it can block the whole terrible situation. It’s pointless. He’s still uncomfortably hard, body thrumming with desire. He can still feel the phantom touch of fingers over his skin, lips against his jaw—

Uldren’s fingers. Uldren’s lips.

Shit.

There’s a part of him trying to rationalize it — you can’t control your dreams. Lots of people have wet dreams about their friends and it doesn’t mean anything. But he _knows_ it means something. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots. To remember lingering stares whenever Uldren isn’t looking, his heart missing a beat or a dozen whenever he catches the prince’s jubilant grin after a perfect shot.

Maybe this was a long time due. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Doesn’t mean he has to do anything about it.

Jolyon gets out of bed and goes to take a cold shower.

 

-

 

There’s a Fallen Captain in his scope and a voice in his ear, telling him to take the shot.

Breath in. Hold it. Squeeze the trigger. The Supremacy kicks into his shoulder and the bullet flies straight and true. Bull’s-eye.

Except he blinks and it’s not a Fallen anymore. It’s Uldren, eyes wide, staring at him through the scope. There’s a hole in his chest, dead center, where the bullet went through. Jolyon is closer then, too close, enough to see the blood on Uldren’s hands, dripping between his fingers. He opens his mouth around a question but no sound comes out.

His legs give out under him and he falls to his knees. Jolyon runs, tries to catch him before he collapses, tries to hold him, tries to apologize, but he’s so far now, a world’s apart from Uldren and he can never reach him—

He wakes up.

Someone is shushing him, gentle in his ear. He grasps for his consciousness. Tries to recognize the voice. To hold on to it—

“Wake up, Jol, it’s just a dream, you’re fine-”

 _Uldren_.

The sound that escapes him is half relief and half grief. His cheeks are wet with tears, he realizes, and he’s shaking, breath coming out in half-choked sobs. That’s what must have woken Uldren up.

Uldren has his arms around him, his forehead pressed against Jolyon’s. He’s still whispering senseless reassurances against his lips, voice soft in the heavy silence. His eyes are half-open only, two lines of glowing gold in the dark.

“Uldren,” Jolyon whispers. “You’re-”

“I’m fine,” he replies. It’s far from the first time he wakes him up from such a nightmare. “So are you. We’re in my room. We’re _safe_.”

Jolyon takes a shuddering breath, lets it out slowly. His heart rate slows gradually and he nods slightly. “Alright,” he says, once he can speak past the lump in his throat. “Alright.”

“What do you need?”

“Just- talk to me?”

Uldren hums low in his throat. “So, Petra’s been telling me about the new Corsairs she’s training-”

 

-

Secrets like seeds sprouting in every crack/every doubt/every shadowy corner of the mind—

Fear skittering across his body like a wave of hollow beetles over the half-buried corpse of everything he’s ever loved—

Everything grows inward and outward roots in the shape of his blood vessels reaching into his heart to feed on every hard-won beat—

Is blood flammable? Uldren asks with a match held between two finger as the flames swallow him—

He wakes up.

There are a thousand beetle legs crawling on his brain, the phantom itch of memories he’d rather forget. He lays there, breathing slowly through the dread until it settles, cold and heavy, in his chest. The uneasy feeling doesn’t go away but it abates, eventually, into something manageable.

He wishes, an instant, for someone to piece him back together once his body has shaken itself into pieces. Arms around him and golden eyes in the dark, watching over him.

(He misses Uldren like a lost limb, phantom pains and all.)

 

-

 

Breath in. Hold it. Squeeze the trigger.

A Taken Knight drops dead, dissolving into nothing before it even hits the ground. Jolyon hits the mag release and looks over the area through his scope, checking for the presence of more Taken. He’s been here all day, doing his part to staunch the Taken infestation. The Guardians have proved far more efficient at it than he’ll ever be but if he doesn’t do _something_ he’s pretty sure he’s going to go crazy. Petra is aware of it, and so far it’s the only thing that’s kept her from grounding him.

She worries about him. He’s not sure why. He’s coping alright, all things considered.

“Nice shot.”

Jolyon freezes.

Ah, well. ‘Alright’ is a very subjective definition, anyway.

He sits up, cracking his neck to buy himself some time. Eventually he has to turn around, though, and face Uldren.

(He never stopped dreaming about him. It’s both a blessing and a curse, depending on the day.)

Uldren looks the same as when he died but his eyes are older, devoid of the crazed glint he bore for so long. Those of a prince long gone, lost in the Black Garden. Of the man Jolyon fell in love with, a lifetime ago.

That’s how he knows it’ll be one of the nice dreams. They became rare, lately, chased out of his mind by stress and fear until all there was left were nightmares or exhausted, dreamless slumber. Might as well make the best of it.

He clears his throat. “Thanks.”

Uldren doesn’t come closer as he expected him to. He looks… unsure. Not awkward, but distant. A stranger. Maybe not one of the good dreams, finally.

“Do you need anything?” Jolyon asks. It’s always safer to ask, with Uldren. There’s always something he needs, something he wants. Defined by his hunger as much as by anything else, sometimes.

He nods. “Do you know where I could find a ship? I need to go to the City.” He blinks, as if suddenly remembering something. “Oh, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Crow! And this is Pulled Pork.”

And as he says it, he holds out a hand, above which hovers a Ghost.

Static fills Jolyon’s ears. He pinches the inside of his arm, hard enough to bruise.

He doesn’t wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> uldren's guardian name from beastofthesky's [apsidial precession](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15939545)


End file.
